


How to Fuck in High Heels

by Ignaz Wisdom (ignaz)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-18
Updated: 2007-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/Ignaz%20Wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little cliché goes a long way.  A lot of cliché goes farther.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Fuck in High Heels

**Author's Note:**

> The first line is from brooklinegirl's [Some Like It Both Ways](http://members.tripod.com/happyfriendbox/somelikeit.html), which was originally for the ds_flashfiction badfic challenge last year. I found it ... inspiring. Thank you to counterfeitcoin, the_antichris, and nos4a2no9 for looking it over (and for asking for more, as well as telling me how to bring it).

Benton Fraser brushed his long, jet-black hair back from his angular yet somehow still feminine square-jawed face. Esmeralda had really done a remarkable job with his makeup. She had managed to soften the hard lines and male features, and the wig she'd provided was far more flattering than the one he'd worn the last time duty called for transvestism. Fraser felt truly repentant for doubting her abilities earlier. Although in his defence, she _did_ have an excess of five o'clock shadow that no amount of foundation could conceal.

"Kill me," Ray was saying somewhere behind him. "Kill me now. Bludgeon me with something -- _anything_."

"Nonsense, detective," Lieutenant Welsh said. "You're beautiful."

Fraser turned away from the mirror to see his partner, who, through the clever wiles of Esmeralda, had been transformed into -- well. Into a Ray Kowalski who wore eyeliner. And mascara, eventually, after testily rejecting the offer of false eyelashes. His blond wig lay abandoned on the table next to him, strands of hair in disarray. Ray's own hair mimicked the mess, spikes pointing in all directions. He was oddly, but not surprisingly, fetching.

He was also scowling. "What are you looking at?"

Fraser licked his bottom lip and decided to take the honest, obvious route. "You, Ray."

Ray's scowl grew more menacing. "Yeah. Well, _don't_."

Fraser raised his (freshly plucked) eyebrows, but obliged Ray by turning away to make sure there was no lipstick on his teeth.

Lieutenant Welsh sounded pleased. "See, I knew you'd be great for this assignment, Vecchio. As soon as the file with the dead drag queens crossed my desk, I said to myself, you know who would be just perfect for this job?" He paused before delivering the answer, clearly with gusto: "The detective and the Mountie who just destroyed three shop windows, a fire hydrant, a horse buggy, a police cruiser, and two hot dog stands last week in the course of arresting a pickpocket."

"Hey, picking pockets is a _crime_, and last I checked, I'm a _cop_, which means I get paid to _stop crime_ \--"

Fraser turned around. "Ray, I think what the lieutenant means is that an assignment such as this calls for officers who are committed to maintaining the right, no matter what extraordinary efforts --"

"You stay out of this!" Ray snapped, pointing at Fraser. "Those hot dog stands were your fault!"

"Ladies!" Esmeralda swept into the room in a flurry of feathers, sequins, and enthusiasm, dragging a plastic wardrobe on wheels. She gave Ray a disapproving stare. "Detective Vecchio, how many times do I have to put that wig on your head?"

"Listen, buddy --" Ray shot her a look that would have crippled weaker men -- women -- than Esmeralda, but she only tossed the vibrant red hair of her wig and put one manicured hand on her hip. "Okay, _lady_," Ray corrected. "I told you a hundred times, I'm not putting that thing on until I absolutely have to."

Esmeralda cast a sidelong glance at Lieutenant Welsh.

"Detective," the lieutenant said, nodding at the wig.

"Oh, come on!" Ray threw his hands in the air and stamped the floor with one boot while kicking a chair across the room with the other.

"That reminds me," Esmeralda said, crouching and reaching into a trunk. A moment later she stood, holding two pairs of women's shoes, each with three-inch heels.

"I'm a ten," Fraser helpfully supplied.

Esmeralda winked at him. "Don't I know it, sugar."

Ray punched a pile of faux-fur coats and swore ineloquently.

***

Fraser was familiar with the practice of transvestism in many cultures, and certainly he'd donned many a disguise in the name of duty. Additionally, after nearly four years in Chicago, he was no stranger to the diverse modes of evening entertainment pursued by his fellow city dwellers. Nonetheless, he found the atmosphere of the nightclub somewhat uncomfortable. There was the density of the crowd, to start with, and the heat from hundreds of moving bodies that made him break out in a sweat.

For his part, Ray was adapting surprisingly well to the environment given his earlier protests. He had only one minor complaint.

"I can't walk in these damn things," Ray muttered into Fraser's ear, easily audible over the din of the crowd and the throbbing music. The tiny microphones were easily obscured by their wigs.

Fraser smiled and craned his neck to find his partner on the opposite side of the crowded room, looking resigned to his discomfort.

"I thought you were very graceful, Ray."

"Yeah, well, they're starting to hurt now. I got all kinds of new respect for women." A moment later he added, "I make a pretty ugly dame, don't I?"

Fraser didn't need to look. He'd watched Ray studiously since the evening began, committing the vision to memory (he suspected Ray would be resistant to the suggestion of a photo). After an epic battle of wills and snide insults, Ray had finally surrendered to Esmeralda and was now grudgingly wearing not only the painful shoes and the wig but also the black dress Esmeralda had selected for him. It was a surprisingly conservative ensemble, with quarter-length sleeves, modestly cut -- except for its length. The skirt ended quite a few illicit inches above Ray's knees and clung to Ray's thighs and ... other places. Ray's usual baggy blue jeans concealed so much, but Esmeralda's dress left little to the imagination.

Fraser, naturally, had a great capacity for imagination.

Ray had been adamantly opposed to shaving his legs at first, but he'd eventually caved on that issue, too. Fraser had been encouraging, offering Ray a pep talk about male swimmers shaving their body hair before important competitions without sacrificing their manhood. Ray had retorted that "guys in banana hammocks" didn't have much manhood to lose in the first place. Fraser had coughed politely and pointed out that said swimwear tended to clearly indicate the opposite, at which point Ray had gaped at Fraser for nearly ten seconds before agreeing to shave.

Fraser had never seen so much of Ray's legs before, as Ray tended to favor long pants even when off-duty. Fraser had taken in as much of the sight as he could without making Ray uncomfortable, but even Ray seemed fascinated by his own body, running his hands ever so distractingly up and down the length of his legs while remarking at how "weird" they felt. He'd finally been talked into a set of pantyhose, as much for appearances as to keep his hands from wandering to his thighs all evening.

Finally, the bust of Ray's dress had been filled out with a set false breasts, which had given Ray no end of amusement until he'd actually had to wear them. Fraser sympathized. His own contraption was more than a little unwieldy. Ray had sworn, complained bitterly, and threatened to kick various body parts of anyone who might see and comment, including his fellow officers, Francesca, and Diefenbaker, who had wisely chosen to take the night off. In the end, though, as Fraser had expected, his commitment to justice proved stronger than his fear of miniskirts and falsies.

Ray had also acquiesced to wearing more makeup ("What, I'm not _pretty_ enough for you?") which, Fraser had to admit, was highly distracting. Ray's blue eyes, which had always been striking, now shone from thick, ink-black frames of eyeliner. Esmeralda had even convinced Ray to be silent long enough for her to apply a glossy red lipstick ("I am _not_ wearing pink lipstick, pink is for _girls_") that made Ray's mouth look absolutely sinful. The other -- ah -- _patrons_ of the bar had been casting Ray envious, awed, and perhaps even lustful glances all evening.

Fraser had surreptitiously shot a few of the latter at Ray, too. He had always found Ray attractive, from the moment in the 27th when he was embraced by a stranger who called himself a friend, but the lethal combination of eyeliner, mascara, and thigh-clinging dress was making those feelings bizarrely difficult to manage.

"Not at all, Ray," he said quietly, knowing the message would be heard. He looked over to catch a glimpse of Ray's skeptical smirk as he made the universal gesture for _you're crazy_.

Determined not to dwell on Ray's transformation, Fraser directed his thoughts to the case at hand. They had a suspect, at least. Fraser and Ray were charged with locating him and apprehending him before he could harm another person. It was difficult to casually scan people's faces in the darkness, punctuated with spasmodic flashes of white light.

Fraser found it more than a little upsetting that the nightclub's activities were continuing as usual, given that two patrons had already been killed -- stabbed to death in nearby alleys -- and a third grievously injured by the perpetrator. No one in attendance seemed to be concerned for the lives lost or for their own safety. Garish entertainment was the goal of the evening. Fraser had admitted earlier that he found the spectacle fascinating, exotic, alien. Ray claimed it was the tackiest disco throwback he'd ever seen.

Ray's voice suddenly returned in Fraser's ear, low and urgent, speaking Fraser's name.

"Three o'clock," Ray said.

"Your -- "

"Your three o'clock."

Fraser's eyes flickered to the right, immediately settling on their target. The composite drawing had been remarkably accurate. The man was leaning against a wall, talking to a -- ahem, to a woman, leaning in close, one hand on her shoulder.

"I see him," Fraser answered.

"I'm gonna circle around here," Ray said, his voice very low, "try to get close. Keep an eye on him -- if he moves, you gotta tell me, because I can't see anything out here. There's big hair _everywhere_."

Fraser glanced at the front entrance of the club and then back at their suspect, who was still deep in conversation with the other patron. Then he looked at Ray, who was sidling through the crowd, smoothly parting the sea of people as he passed. The blond wig obscured more of Ray's face than he was accustomed to, but Fraser could make him out clearly.

Forcing his way through the throng must have been physically taxing. Fraser could hear Ray's labored breathing through the speaker in his ear. He sounded like he was straining to push his way between the bodies blocking his path. He sounded ...

Fraser closed his eyes. Yes, he sounded like _that_. Like running, like panting, like making love -- Fraser was not unfamiliar with those ragged inhalations and exhalations. Something stirred below his belt, or rather, below where his belt would be, were he wearing pants and not a dress.

Ray sounded the way Fraser imagined he would if he were aroused. If he were in bed. Fraser wondered what it would take to bring Ray to that point, to make him make those sounds. Fraser could -- if Ray was more than just his partner, if their relationship was more than that of colleagues and friends -- he could, perhaps, draw those sounds from Ray's throat. He could slide a hand under the enticingly short hem of the black dress ... Fraser frowned. What was Ray wearing under there, anyway?

Opening his eyes again, Fraser followed Ray's movements from across the room as he squeezed and slipped through the mass of people, still breathing heavily. He appeared focused, intent on reaching his target. The target which --

 

Oh, dear.

Fraser looked back at the wall where their suspect had been leaning. The crowd had thinned out somewhat, making it immediately clear that the man and his companion had vanished.

"Ray --"

"Fraser, where is this guy? I can't see --"

"Ray," Fraser said, his voice tight, "I think I lost him."

There was a beat of silence, interrupted only by Ray's breathing.

"Outside," Ray said a moment later, tersely. "The alley. _Go_."

He went. He moved toward the entrance as quickly as he could, muttering half-audible apologies to everyone he had to push out of the way. His face was searing with chagrin. How could he have lost their suspect? How could he have let down his guard like that -- let himself become distracted by, of all things, his own partner? It was the kind of careless mistake not even a green recruit would have made, and here he was, a veteran officer of the RCMP, allowing lust to rob him of his senses. He had failed in his duty, endangered or possibly even cost another person's life -- and Ray, what would Ray think of what he had done? How would Ray ever be able to respect him again after this?

Fraser reached the door first. He inhaled deeply, grateful for the rush of cool evening air that hit him as he burst outside, and without wasting another second, ran for the alley to the side of the club --

\-- where their suspect was standing in the dark, several yards away, along with his companion from the club. He had shoved the other man against the brick wall of the building, a hand wrapped around his throat.

Fraser sprinted. "Police! You are under arrest --"

"Freeze!"

There was the glint of a knife blade, then the sound of a gunshot, surprising, almost deafening -- and then the suspect was recoiling, stumbling, and falling to the ground. Fraser kept running until he reached them. The intended victim was winded and distraught but not seriously injured. The bullet appeared to have done only minor damage to the perpetrator's arm.

Fraser stood and glanced over his shoulder at Ray, who already had his cell phone out, his weapon still trained on the fallen suspect. He had lost (or likely discarded) his wig at some point, leaving his own blond hair spiked in attractive disarray.

_Dear god_, Fraser thought with a shred of panic. _I'm doing it again._

Ray looked back at him, his expression unreadable, then tossed Fraser a set of handcuffs.

Fraser cuffed the injured miscreant and determinedly turned his attention to stemming the flow of blood from the man's arm while they waited for backup and an ambulance.

***

Ray didn't ask for an explanation and Fraser didn't offer one. What could he possibly say? When the EMTs and uniformed officers arrived, he stood aside guiltily and let Ray answer their questions.

Later, they walked back to the car in silence, which was interrupted only by Ray's final complaint about their attire. At the car, Ray reached into the trunk and perfunctorily tossed Fraser's off-duty clothes at him. Fraser sat in the backseat where he could preserve at least the illusion of privacy while he removed the wig and clothes and changed into infinitely more comfortable boxer shorts and jeans.

He watched anxiously, eyes mostly averted, while Ray wrenched most of his own clothes off. Ray pitched the offending high heels into the trunk and seemed to find vindictive joy in tearing the stockings as he removed them. He sighed in pleasure as he pulled an old pair of jeans up under the skirt of his dress, masterfully doing so without ever appearing indecent. Finally Ray lifted the dress, pulling it off over his head. He thrashed and fumbled with the embellished brassiere for a few seconds before sighing in frustration and turning his back to Fraser and gesturing over his shoulder at the hook.

"Help me get this thing off, would ya? Quick, before anyone sees me like this."

Fraser resisted the urge to point out that Ray had been wearing a dress and heels a few moments earlier, and that his current garb couldn't be any worse. He stepped forward immediately, but hesitated before unfastening the hook and freeing Ray from his predicament.

Ray blew out a breath and glanced backward. "Come on, Fraser, I haven't got all night."

Fraser steeled himself and reached. As he'd feared, it was impossible not to brush against Ray's back, impossible not to feel the damp, warm skin against his own shaking fingers. He unhooked the bra as quickly as possible and stepped out of the way.

Ray slid the straps off with a low moan of relief that did nothing to abate Fraser's mood. He tossed the bra into the trunk with the rest of his accoutrement and then closed it firmly, as if the clothes might yet rise from the dead and return to attack.

Fraser watched as Ray took a deep breath, his bare chest rising and falling, golden in the light from a nearby street lamp.

"Okay," Ray finally said, his voice surprisingly level. He reached into the car and re-emerged with a white tee shirt. "What happened? You tired or something? A drag queen try to feel you up?"

Fraser forced himself to look at Ray's face, _only_ at Ray's face, but given the fact that Ray's face still bore heavy traces of red lipstick and smudged eyeliner, Fraser's good-faith effort was somewhat futile. "I was --" He stopped and licked his lip, wracked with shame. "I was distracted. I'm so sorry, Ray. I --"

"You were distracted," Ray said, sounding more than a little distracted himself. He squinted and pulled the shirt over his head, then pointed at Fraser with his index and little fingers. "Okay. You. Me." He hesitated and looked around the nearly empty street for a moment. "Somewhere other than here. Let's deal with this."

Fraser wasn't sure how Ray planned to deal with his reckless ineptitude, particularly since Ray couldn't possibly know the true cause of it and Fraser had no intention of explaining himself further. As with any number of seemingly strange things Fraser did to pique Ray's curiosity and ire, he would simply have to remedy the problem on his own. Avoiding the sight of Ray for the next few hours would be a good start, but Ray seemed disinclined to let Fraser go without some sort of resolution. He got into the car, Fraser following, and drove towards his apartment.

They rode in silence. Fraser passed the time by looking out the window at the passing buildings, thinking about the three -- now _four_, thanks to his carelessness -- victims. Even if the fourth would suffer only bruising and the psychological torments of the evening, Fraser bore the responsibility for letting the situation get out of hand.

Concentrating on his failure should have been enough to put his libido back in its place. If he were any kind of decent officer of the law, dwelling on the crimes would keep him in check, but his body was hyper-aware of Ray in the seat next to him, back in his normal clothes but still with that vivid makeup on his tantalizing face. Fraser inhaled deeply, quietly; the faint scent of Ray's sweat lingered in the air between them. He closed his eyes and struggled to focus.

The silence persisted as they parked, exited the car, and made their way up the stairs to Ray's apartment. Fraser stole glances at Ray's face -- blue eyes still bright inside their dark frames, red mouth just begging to be kissed -- and then scolded himself after each one.

Only when they were inside, in the front entrance of Ray's apartment, did Ray finally speak to him.

"So," he said. He raised an arm to rub the back of his neck. Fraser helplessly watched the edge of Ray's shirt riding up, exposing an inviting band of his abdomen.

"Look," Ray continued, "I don't know what happened out there, but we're partners, so whatever's bugging you -- you can tell me, okay?"

The ache in his chest tightened. "I'm not sure I can."

Ray's brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"It's rather ... complicated," Fraser hedged.

Ray squinted at him, peering through the smudged eye makeup. "Okay. Uh, hang on a minute," he said, as if he expected Fraser to bolt the minute his back was turned -- which, Fraser mused, wasn't actually a bad idea. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm gonna go wash this stuff off my face --"

Ray started to turn, and before Fraser could stop himself, before he could even realize what he was doing, he reached out and grabbed Ray's arm, holding him tightly, holding him still.

"Don't," he said.

Ray stared at him, red mouth agape, eyes confused.

"I like it."

Ray's expression cleared. A corner of his mouth turned up. "Yeah?"

Fraser swallowed. This was it, the moment where everything they'd built, their entire partnership, came crashing down. "Yeah."

Ray nodded slowly. He looked ... impressed. "Huh," he said.

Then he stepped forward, placing himself only inches away from Fraser, who immediately took a step back. Ray followed, carefully insinuating himself in Fraser's personal space until Fraser simply ran out of personal space -- ran out of space entirely, as he backed into Ray's front door with a dull thud. Ray kept moving forward, moving until there was hardly room for air to breathe between them, a fixated look on his face, made all the more striking and enticing by the makeup.

Fraser startled. He hadn't expected Ray's obvious tension to turn into aggression. He braced himself, anticipating the worst.

Then Ray put one hand on the door next to Fraser's head and leaned in close, his mouth against Fraser's ear. His voice was nearly a whisper: "What else do you like, Fraser?"

Fraser's mind raced, gears spinning furiously, trying to articulate a neutral answer to that question. Pemmican, maybe. Wood carving. But then Ray's other hand came to cup Fraser's jaw, fingers stroking his cheek, thumb just barely gliding over Fraser's lower lip.

"Please tell me we're on the same page here," Ray muttered, flinching slightly.

Fraser could do nothing but nod, and with his face in Ray's hand, even that was a challenge.

"Good," Ray said against Fraser's lips, and then he pressed forward even more, until there was no air between them at all. Fraser didn't miss it. Who really needed to breathe, after all, when there were soft (red) lips moving silkily against his own, when Ray was clearly willing to indulge this particular insanity?

Indulge and accelerate. Ray didn't seem to have any reservations about this. He kissed with carnal determination, all teeth and tongue, and deeply, so that Fraser got the impression that Ray was trying to fuse them together. His movements were smooth and swift, fingers nimble as they trailed down the length of Fraser's torso and slid under the hem of his shirt, rubbing his abdomen, sliding up to glance over his nipples. Fraser tried to match him, advance for advance, slipping his own hands under the back of Ray's t-shirt and kissing him with feverish intent.

Ray grunted and pulled away just far enough to breathe. Fraser caught a glimpse of Ray's face: black shadows around his heavy-lidded eyes, and red smeared all over his mouth. Debauched. Undaunted, Fraser tried to follow, capturing Ray's face in his hands and trying to drag him back.

"I want --" Ray managed to say before Fraser cut him off, muffling whatever else Ray had to say and forcing him to translate his request into action. Ray grabbed Fraser's shoulders and pulled him away from the door, walking backwards towards his bedroom.

Fraser wanted to lose himself in this, in Ray, in the feverish kisses, but without warning higher brain function cut in. He had nearly let a man die tonight! How could they be doing this?

"We shouldn't," Fraser gasped. "What happened tonight --"

That was as far as he got before Ray pushed him up against the frame of the bedroom doorway. His head made a soft sound against the wood as Ray muttered, "Shut up, Fraser."

"Ray -- _oh_," he moaned as Ray's hand slid down to cup him through his jeans.

"Yeah," Ray breathed, biting at Fraser's ear. "God, you get me so hot."

Some part of Fraser's brain suggested that it might be prudent to move this out of Ray's bedroom doorway and into the bedroom proper, but he couldn't manage to find the words necessary for such a proposal. All he could do was slide his hands back under Ray's shirt again, this time urging Ray to lift his arms so Fraser could remove it. Ray obliged, but then he immediately returned his hand to the front of Fraser's jeans. He fumbled with the button for a moment before loosening it enough to slide his hand inside, and then again through the opening in Fraser's shorts.

Fraser groaned, and Ray answered with his own soft sound of pleasure, even though Fraser had barely touched him yet -- which was absurd, because this had been about Ray from the very start. Somehow, Fraser's private obsession had turned into Ray's mission. Fraser tried to remedy the situation by reaching for the fly of Ray's own jeans, which he undid easily. He pulled the rough fabric out of the way and --

"Oh," he said breathlessly, his hand finding instant contact with Ray's erection, with his soft nest of pubic hair. "I was wondering."

Ray laughed. "Yeah, I figured I'd go commando. You get visible panty lines with that skirt."

"I understand," Fraser said, fitting his hand tightly around Ray's erection, loving the heat of him, the slickness at the tip, and the way Ray responded to his touch. He ran his thumb over the head, spreading the pre-ejaculate and enjoying Ray's answering groan. Fraser put his other hand on the back of Ray's head, fingers stroking through the flattened spikes, and drew him forward for a kiss.

But Ray, ever unpredictable, slipped away and ducked out of his reach. He slid to his knees with more grace than Fraser would have expected and pulled Fraser's jeans and underwear down just far enough to free his aching erection.

Ray stared. Fraser felt his face heat, the examination making him suddenly self-conscious. Ray did not seem displeased, though. In fact, he appeared to be mesmerized. When he looked back up at Fraser's face, his own cheeks were flushed and his eyes were slightly dilated. Without breaking eye contact, making sure that Fraser was watching him, Ray swirled his tongue around the head of Fraser's penis.

"Is this what you were thinking of?" Ray asked, his voice raw, and then he wrapped his lips around Fraser's erection and drew as much of it into his mouth as he could.

Fraser let his head fall back against the door frame. His legs shook and he forced himself to stand upright. Ray's mouth was tight and searingly hot around his erection, sucking him with earnestness and such care.

Fraser spared a glance down again; Ray's eyes were now closed and he looked completely absorbed in what he was doing, as if there was nothing in the world he would rather be doing than sucking Fraser. Fraser had imagined this. He'd guiltily dreamed and fantasized about just this scenario, or one very much like it: Ray pleasuring him with his lovely, mobile mouth; Ray using his hands with their long fingers while he kissed Fraser's mouth and neck. Yet his fantasies could never have adequately prepared him for the sight of Ray on his knees, eyes smudged and blackened, one hand wrapped around the base of Fraser's cock and the other holding on firmly to Fraser's thigh, with red lipstick on his mouth, stretched and swollen around Fraser's erection.

He doubted he'd ever see it again. The total sensory experience was almost too much, so Fraser closed his eyes, willing himself to last longer. He'd been wanting this for what felt like forever, been primed for it since Ray had emerged from Esmeralda's clutches in the form-fitting black dress, and now that it was actually happening, he had no more control over himself than a teenage boy. With only the feeling of Ray's hot mouth and strong suction on his cock, Fraser attempted to regain some composure, yet the image refused to leave his mind.

He opened his eyes again to find Ray watching him, arching his neck to peer upward and catch glimpses of Fraser's face. He pulled off long enough to lick the palm of his hand, then returned both hand and mouth to Fraser's erection, jerking him in perfect rhythm with the sucking.

Fraser knotted his fingers in Ray's hair and tried not to hold him still or move him. It would be wrong to manipulate Ray like that. And yet ... Fraser watched as Ray glanced upward, and he could swear he saw a smirk in Ray's eyes. Perhaps Ray would be amenable to this, as well. Fraser held on tentatively, loosely, giving Ray plenty of room to shake Fraser's hands off if he wished, but Ray was pliable, letting Fraser move him however he pleased, letting Fraser use Ray's mouth for his own pleasure. He tightened his fingers and pushed his cock further into Ray's open mouth, thrusting gently, enthralled by Ray's easy acceptance.

His orgasm swept over him as suddenly and as unexpectedly as the entire encounter had begun. He gasped, tightened his hold on Ray, and felt the first pulse rush through him before he could issue a warning. Ray didn't seem bothered. He let Fraser come in his mouth, swallowed, swallowed again, and then pulled his face away so that the last spurt hit him in the chest. He held Fraser's penis in his hand, looked down at the mess, and then grinned.

"Oh yeah," Ray said, breathing hard. "This is definitely what you were thinking of."

Fraser slid down the door frame, landing in a tangle of limbs and unfastened jeans. "I never even dared to imagine."

Ray slumped until he was sitting on the floor across from Fraser. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. "Liar."

Fraser decided to let that one go. "Ray," he said, reaching for the open fly of Ray's jeans, "let me ..."

"Too late," Ray said, embarrassment and laughter in his voice. "I couldn't help myself."

Fraser tried to ignore the flicker of disappointment and guilt. He'd been so absorbed in his own pleasure that he'd completely neglected Ray's. Of course, _neglect_ had been his problem all evening, hadn't it? Suddenly ashamed of himself, he shifted and tried to readjust his clothes.

"I'm so sorry, Ray," he said, unable to look his partner in the eye.

"Hey, it's okay. You can owe me one."

"No, not -- not just that. Tonight -- what I did was unforgivable, and then letting you, ah, do this for me ..."

When no answer came, Fraser looked up to find Ray staring pityingly at him. "You're still hung up on that, huh?"

"Ray! My negligence nearly cost that man his life! If we'd been only seconds later, or if you hadn't been there with your gun --"

"Fraser. Do you really think beating yourself up over this is gonna make it better? You think punishing yourself is gonna make a difference?"

Fraser didn't answer.

Ray scooted backward until he could lean with the door frame at his back. He spoke slowly, irritation prickling just below the surface of his voice. "You make it better by not doing it again. You fix it by knowing what went wrong and how to avoid it the next time. You goofed up. It _happens_. It doesn't make you a bad cop. Look, nobody even got hurt -- well, one guy got hurt, but he kind of deserved it."

"Ray --"

"Shut up. It's okay, Fraser. Look, how likely is it that we're ever gonna be in a situation like this again?"

Fraser thought briefly about his lengthy record of run-ins with transvestite cases. He bit his tongue. "Unlikely, Ray."

"Damn right. So what we do now is avoid any more drag queen gigs, you stop staring at my mouth when we're on the job, and I promise to wear the lipstick and suck you off all you want when we're off-duty, okay?"

Fraser gaped. Ray laughed out loud.

"That's very funny, Ray," Fraser finally managed to say.

"Yeah, I know," Ray grinned. "This makeup and dress stuff is actually kind of growing on me. Who would have thought?"


End file.
